


Too Close (For Comfort)

by irisbleufic



Series: Delicate, Dangerous, Obsessed [2]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Canon Compliant, Coincidences, Flirting, Gotham City Police Department, M/M, POV Oswald Cobblepot, Police, Pre-Slash, Random Encounters, Season/Series 01, Stalking, Voyeurism, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 17:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12462648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: Oswald withdrew his hands, letting his arms drop uselessly at his sides. They both stared at the floor for a few seconds, attempting to recover from the shock they'd given each other.“I know that feeling all too well,” Edward offered, disarmingly apologetic. “It hurts, doesn't it?”“What hurts?” Oswald asked absently, turning to bypass him, finding himself blocked by Edward.Edward's expression went softer, belying whatever flippancy he'd displayed before. “Rejection.”[Readable as a companion-piece/follow-up toYou Will Know Him (When You See Him), if it so happens you chose to read that one as a stand-alone.  However, if you read it as #1 inDDO/WYFIR 'Verse, then this ficlet slides in as another flashback that becomes #2 in that series and knocks everything else forward by one.  Alternatively, you can read this by itself as a S1 partial missing-scene piece.]





	Too Close (For Comfort)

As blustery as the day had proved, and inasmuch as Oswald would regret it later, he'd decided to walk.

The apartment that he and his mother had inhabited for as long as he could remember was only four blocks from the grand edifice occupied by Gotham City Police Department. He'd left supervising renovations on Fish's former club, also within walking distance, to Gabriel for the time being. He'd promised his mother he'd take lunch with her at home after running his errand.

Oswald resisted the urge to wince at the flare of pain from his ankle to his knee as he opened the side entrance and stepped into the vestibule. He took a few halting steps forward, fetching the invitation from inside his jacket. The black-and-white cardstock was crisp with promise.

Easy enough to ignore, the few bewildered glances he earned on his way down the two low steps in front of him and up the arching, larger staircase to his left. Still, the scrutiny stung.

 _Just my luck_ , Oswald thought, reaching the mid-level landing to find both Jim Gordon's and Harvey Bullock's desks empty. His timing with regard to previous GCPD visits had been so uncanny as to astonish everyone. Now, he was hardly more than a minor intrusion.

From his vantage point behind Jim's chair, Oswald scanned as much of the workspace below as the view afforded. Of course, there was always the next landing up. Footsteps just above and behind Oswald prompted him to turn.

The tall young man in glasses looked away, a movement too sharp to be accidental. He stood unnaturally still as Oswald regarded him, staring at the wall next to the railing. His posture was comically guilty.

 _If they've told you to keep an eye out, to warn them whenever I appear,_ Oswald thought, turning on his heel, descending the stairs nearest to Jim's desk, _then they've picked a poor spy _.__

The sound of the young man's footsteps echoed ominously behind him and across the landing. It was all Oswald could do to keep track of his stalker's parallel progress down the opposite staircase and across the work floor. Whoever the nosy party was, he was determined.

Oswald set his course for the main reception desk, resolved to do two things. First, he intended to ask where Jim was. Second, he intended to report the untoward behavior of the employee who was, as he drew nearer to his goal, passing the holding cells.

 _Let's see if you'll continue the chase in front of a co-worker_ , Oswald thought, beating his pursuer to the desk. He positioned himself before it, hands clasped in front of him, fingers motionless on the invitation.

The young man crossed behind Oswald, so close his approach stirred the air. He stepped neatly into line at Oswald's right shoulder, fingers taut on the file he'd been clutching to his chest.  He carried himself with poise.

Oswald couldn't bear the strangeness, the sheer _unknowing_ , any longer. He turned sharply.

“Can I help you?” he asked, using the entirety of the shallow breath he'd drawn in frustration.

The inconsiderate stranger stared straight ahead, although his lips quirked visibly in profile.

“I don't know,” he said, continuing to stare at the desk. Pleased to have been noticed, as he and Oswald undoubtedly occupied similar posts within their respective organizations' food chains. “Can you?”

Oswald chuckled humorlessly in response to the young man's nervous giggle, noting for the first time that his wardrobe left something to be desired. Grey coat, drab green shirt, and patterned orangeish tie with a clunky typewriter-key clip? Not even the decency to bother with a _pin_.

“What do you want?” Oswald parried, deciding he'd tired of this presumptuous, inscrutable game.

The stranger turned as unpredictably as Oswald had, breaking into a smug, cat-caught-canary grin.

“What I want—” he took a scattered breath as he spoke, bouncing expectantly on the balls of his feet, regarding Oswald with a hint of unwarranted excitement “—the poor have, the rich need, _and_ —if you eat it, you'll die.”

Battling a fit of intense, genuine bafflement, Oswald converted the action of shaking his head into tilting his chin dubiously downward. He wouldn't offer this bastard satisfaction.

“Is this,” he began, realizing only too late that he'd lost command of his voice, which telegraphed confusion. _A come-on?_ he wondered, completing his useless thought. It would offer another viable explanation as to why the man looked so flattered. “Are you asking me a riddle?”

The stranger's eyes went round, earnestly hopeful behind his overdone glasses. “Do you like riddles?”

Oswald decided it was a crying shame that, in spite of his lamentable fashion, the man was handsome.

“No,” he said, realizing there was no reason to dispense with frankness if flirtation was off the table.

Disappointment, crushed and distinct, flashed in the young man's eyes an instant before he broke into another of those unaccountable smiles. “So,” he asked with a hint of challenge, “do you give up?”

Oswald indulged in full-on laughter this time, closing his eyes, willing himself to regain composure. If Jim's spy was fucking with him, then he was going to fuck right back. “Friend, look, I—”

“Nothing,” the man cut in with giddy, rapid-fire glee. “The answer is nothing.” He paused, expression waxing almost hesitant. “The poor have it, the rich need it, and if you eat it—”

Oswald halted him mid-sentence with a gesture of his free hand, surrendering to unabashed perplexity.

“Who are you?” he asked, hoping that a switch to guarded openness might prompt the man to explain.

“Edward,” said the stranger, his smile so warm as to seem coquettish. “Nygma,” he continued, over-emphasizing the _N_ , and that's when something at the back of Oswald's mind went _click_. He'd heard this blithering lackey's surname before, although he couldn't get to the bottom of why he remembered the sound of it in his mother's voice and accent. “I know who _you_ are.”

Oswald grinned with restraint as he glanced down, and then looked up to fix his gaze on Edward. He intended to come off as threatening, but couldn't quite shake the inclination to be coy.

“Then you know that you're standing too close,” he said, but what he thought was, _I dare you to step closer_. On the off-chance that this was a misguided attempt at flirtation, he'd like to see if Edward even understood the concept of _flirting back_ when he saw it.

Edward's smile faded as he glanced down, took a deliberate step backward, and looked up again. Lips pursed, eyes alight, he looked as if Oswald's veiled, suggestive threat hadn't even rattled him.

Oswald shuffled away in disgust, prepared to address the uniformed young woman staffing the desk.

“Did you know,” said Edward, causing Oswald to turn his head again, “male emperor penguins keep their eggs warm by balancing them on their feet?” Emphasis on the _T_ , hint of teeth tempting.

With his own dare flung right back in his face, Oswald can't help but gape at Edward in amazed fury.

“Isn't that neat?” Edward asked, sounding as innocent and chipper as ever. He was impossible to read.

Oswald turned, stepping as unforgivably close into Edward's space as Edward had stepped into his. He would lose face for this, perhaps cede control of the encounter, but he doubted he'd had it to begin with.

“Nice to meet you, _sir_ ,” he said, forcing his tone into a disdainful register. “Keep moving.”

Edward's smile faded, giving way to a split-second of fear—and then broke into an expression of subdued acquiescence. “Will do,” he said, keeping his eyes trained on Oswald until well after he'd walked past him, up the two low stairs, and into the vestibule.

 _Here's hoping he'll leave the building_ , Oswald thought, turning his attention on the stairs leading up to the detectives' desks. What he saw prompted him to look down again, fingertips gone damp on his invitation. _And leave me to it._

“Cell-phone records?” said Jim Gordon, loudly, the question clearly intended for his companion.

Harvey Bullock towed the heavy cardboard box of printed evidence to his desk. “Give me a hand?”

Oswald caught Jim's eyes just as Jim glimpsed him, sighing, and started down the stairs. “Yeah, sure.”

Harvey glowered in Oswald's direction as Jim, offering no such assistance with the load, went to him.

There was nothing dignified about the emotions that Oswald suppressed beneath his desire to stay in Jim's good graces. He abruptly realized he was in Edward Nygma's shoes, and it felt like payback.

“Uh, give me a minute,” Jim said to Harvey, glancing at his colleague in what looked like fierce regret.

“Take your time,” said Harvey. He faced Oswald with the most contemptuous look he'd sustained since Maroni's ham-fisted attempt at taking his life by car crusher several days before.

Jim met Oswald halfway, pausing only a short distance from the foot of the stairs. He looked unhappy.

All Oswald could think—in Edward's voice, shot with mockery—was, _You're standing too close_.

“It's good to see you, old friend,” he said, flexing his fingers on the invitation, hoping he hadn't bent it.

Jim glanced from side to side, to ensure they weren't being watched. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to invite you to a party I'm hosting,” said Oswald, proudly, offering the invitation.

“No thanks,” Jim replied, after pretending to intently study it, not even bothering with false regret.

Oswald wondered if he stood a chance at hiding how crushed he felt. He needed to save face.

“I hear you,” he said. “Too busy, I suppose.” After a beat, it occurred to him that the security of his tenure within Falcone's purview might one day _depend_ on having a connection as valuable as Jim. “Are you on a tricky case? Anything I can help you with? It worked so well the last time.”

Jim set his hands on his hips. “I don't want your help,” he said, enunciating each word. “It was a mistake to ask. I don't want you coming here.”

“You shouldn't treat me this way, Jim,” Oswald cautioned. “One day soon, you'll need my help. You'll come to me. And walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light.” Turning off the condescension, he put the sweat-sullied cardstock in Jim's hand, concluding, “Good luck with your police work. And please reconsider my invitation. It won't be the same without you.”

Jim didn't respond. Realizing how desperate he must sound, how _shamefully_ similar his bid for attention seemed to Edward's, Oswald marched back up the two low stairs and turned right.

The hand on his shoulder, to whomever it belonged, took him by such unwelcome surprise that he knocked its owner up against the wall with his trembling hands planted firmly against—

 _Oh, hell,_ Oswald thought, blinking up at Edward with startlement equal to Edward's.

“Can't breathe,” Edward said, his words skirting the edge of what Oswald recognized as panic.

Oswald withdrew his hands, letting his arms drop uselessly at his sides. They both stared at the floor for a few seconds, attempting to recover from the shock they'd given each other.

“I know that feeling all too well,” Edward offered, disarmingly apologetic. “It hurts, doesn't it?”

“What hurts?” Oswald asked absently, turning to bypass him, finding himself blocked by Edward.

Edward's expression went softer, belying whatever flippancy he'd displayed before. “Rejection.”

“Listen, _friend_ ,” Oswald spat, finding that his next attempt at side-stepping was effective because Edward had shrunk back against the wall. “If you were eavesdropping, then you'll know I didn't come here to make small talk with the likes of—”

“Okay, just—tell me what you need,” Edward begged. “Maybe I can help you? I'm close to Jim, I—”

“ _You_?” laughed Oswald, taking another step toward the door, reaching for it. “Close to Jim?” He shook his head, remembering his humiliation of moments before. “I've come on a fool's errand,” he said, sneering at Edward. “I should have known better.”

“Mr. Penguin,” said Edward, dark eyes widening to a degree so expressive that Oswald forgot to look away, “whatever else you are, that is _not_ —”

“I've enjoyed our little chat,” Oswald interrupted, stepping close one last time just because he could. Edward's breath was warm against his cheek, in frightened bursts, and he could tell that Edward was wearing a moderately expensive, understated cologne. “But I really must be going.”

“Then let me see you out,” said Edward, scooting from between Oswald and the wall quicker than a blink. He grabbed the door handle and dragged it open, chivalrously holding it for Oswald.

“Why are you doing this?” Oswald asked, taking a few steps out into the cold, as perplexed as before.

“Because nobody helps people like us,” Edward said, already closing the door behind him, and waved.

 _Like us_ , Oswald thought spitefully, retreating as swiftly as he could. His mother was waiting.


End file.
